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For all the current fascination with the Beat generation — there have been three films about them made in as many years — film-makers seem unable to get around the inherent silliness of the whole movement. It’s difficult to capture that ethos of free-spirited abandon without resorting to tired old tropes: characters cutting loose to jazz in a smoky basement dive bar, for example, or my personal bete noire, characters standing on furniture in order to declaim poetry. Kill Your Darlings, which gives a Benzedrine-fuelled account of a murder that linked the young Ginsberg, Kerouac and Burroughs, falls into all these traps